change of plans (redux)
by honeykang
Summary: When temperamental Koichi Erica is dropped on literally the other side of the world, she decides the last thing she's going to do is get comfortable until she can figure out how to leave this place. Unfortunately, a certain charismatic tennis team captain already seems to have decided that for her. Yukimura/OC/Kirihara. (CoP REWRITE)
1. Chapter 1

**note:** I'm setting this fic in high school! Ages are in accordance. So it's kind of like an AU, but not really that drastic.

 **news:** register to vote if you're 18+ (and American)

 **.change of plans.**

 **.chapter one.**

The hallowed halls of Rikkai Dai Fuzoku are the color of sunlit puke.

This is my impression, anyway, of my first steps into the school: their over-padded education budget could fund one million staircases and twice as many students, but the only colors they could afford were bumblebee black and sunlit puke yellow. My real school in Cali was decidedly public and Not Rich, but we still managed to embellish ourselves in regality—crimson and gold, you know, the colors of decent people.

I pull on the back of my standard uniform skirt as I tread up my seventy-fourth set of stairs this morning, gripping the map of the school in my right hand and the strap of my backpack in my left. My white indoor shoes— _indoor shoes,_ ha!—drag against the linoleum floor. It's the third time I've gone down this way, which means clearly the map was incorrectly drawn, since there's no way any of this is _my_ fault. Logically. I haven't done anything to deserve this bullshit. I'm a good person. I feed stray cats. I _volunteer._

I pull out the map again, tracing the halls with my finger as I locate, for the ninetieth time, the headmaster's office. If I'm reading this right, it must be the first door on my right. But it's _not,_ goddammit, there's clearly no—

Oh.

And there they are. The gates of hell themselves, emblazoned with the signature seal and hidden expertly behind a gold-plated trophy case. I scowl as I approach, just making out the words on the lines and lines of four-foot-tall athletic trophies: a few for soccer, a couple for hockey, even a couple for ping-pong. I press my fingertips against the surface despite the marks I'm sure to leave on the spotless glass to get a closer look. The top row is clearly better-kempt and highly favored, polished to perfection for a single division:

 _Boys' U-17 Tennis, National Division Champions_

I hold back a snort. The Rikkai brochures that Mom threw at me did have some nonsense about nationals and sports teams, but—let's calm down, shall we? You're in high school. You're not _that_ good.

Shaking my head, I turn for the door of the headmaster's office.

—Which is exactly when a yelling, curly-haired freak demonstrates his mastery of the art of apparition, right on the stairs behind me.

I spin around, staring; he flies like a freight train, papers fluttering out of his half-unzipped backpack as he hurtles downward. He yelps at the sight of me, a manic, massive grin on his face, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline as he gestures wildly for me to—

" _Get out of the way!"_

Having the reflexes of a tortoise, however, I just wait. His body slams into mine. We fall to the ground.

"Oof," I hear from beneath me.

 _Fucking Japan._

"For the love of—" I snap in English, struggling to push myself off of the ground. I note dimly that, for some reason, I have ended up falling on top of him even though he slammed into _me—_ which can only mean that, also for some reason, he maneuvered us so I wouldn't be crushed under his fat ass in the split second before we hit the floor. Which was nice of him, if you ignore the fact that, you know, he slammed into me. "What is this bullshit? I can't even walk into the gates of hell in peace? Isn't that, like, _off-bounds,_ religiously speaking?"

"I don't speak English," the boy groans. There is a dull throbbing in my left knee, the budding signs of a bruise, but I cringe as I imagine how he must feel: like a potential lawsuit, maybe. Not that it's my fault. I scramble off of him and dust off my black blazer as he sits up, running a hand through his ridiculous mass of thick, corkscrew curls, somehow messing it up even further. "And—my bad. I was, um, running," he obviates, barely passing for an apology.

I huff the hair out of my face. "Well, are you okay?" I ask, trying to mix both apathy and concern in one question. Judging by the way he tilts his head, it doesn't quite work. "I need to decide if I should call 911 or to step on you as I leave."

He pauses, and then grins like we're friends. I frown, and then sneer, sweeping a lock of short red hair behind my ear. I dyed it for the first time in a show of rebellion, three days after the Parental Units broke the News, but it's grown on me ever since. My instructions to the hairdresser were clear: _Red, you know, like_ R-E-D _. The color of bloodthirsty Vikings. None of that Anne of Green Gables carrot orange kind of red. Red so people know I'm serious about doing damage if they touch me._ That _red._

Apparently, though, the red of bloodthirsty Vikingsisn't deterrent enough for this kid who is speaking to me now. My arms are crossed in the universal sign for _Unhappy_ , but he grins at me with a lazy sort of smirk, the way you would if you had no regard for other people's happiness. Which, I guess, isn't too unrelatable at this moment.

"You know," he says now, " _normal_ people would be the _teensiest_ bit more sympathetic when they've just elbow-smashed an innocent second-year to the ground, but I guess you're not... that _normal,_ huh?"

I stare at him. "Look, kid—do you want me to _carry_ you, or what?" I glance at my watch. The second hand, Mickey Mouse's white glove, ticks around the face with a ridiculous tranquility. "You're blocking the door."

"Yes, please," the boy decides. I open my mouth to beat him down with a few carefully chosen words, but then he stands up, inspecting the damage done to his uniform. Dust mists across his back and waist, and all down the line of his well-defined butt. _Jesus, Erica,_ my home in California says as I look back up at his face. _He's younger than you, you damn pedophile. Calm down._ "Just kidding. It'll be the apocalypse before I ever need to be carried by a _girl."_

"Hm," I say, and then nod thoughtfully. "Oh, I get it. You're just another sexist guy, intimidated by the superiority of women."

He nods back. "Yeah, that's what it is. My problems with women are all solved now, thanks to you. Have you ever considered a future in psychology?"

I scowl, but he grins again, picking up and dusting off his backpack with the speed and diligence of a sloth. Irritation seeps through the back of my throat like the breathing fire of a dragon. I snatch it from him before gliding irritably through the doors, half in annoyance for his self-assurance and half in aversion to being late to my first meeting with the headmaster. Not that I especially care, or anything, but it's also not like I _don't_ care. I'm a good student now, and good students don't partake in tardiness.

Although I fully expect him to follow, a lazy call informs me he is doing no such thing.

"Hey," he drawls. "That's _my_ bag, you know?"

I stop. Breathe in, breathe out. "You know what?" I say finally. "Just, whatever. _Be_ late. _Get_ detention. See if I care. _I,_ on the other hand, would rather not, so enjoy your tardiness, kiddo." I huff. "I don't see why I've even waited for you this long anyhow."

He grins.

I toss his backpack at him, and although I miss by about a mile, he catches it easily and slings it over his shoulder. I spin around and pull at the handle of the glass door, slipping into the air-conditioned room.

Inside is a soft-carpeted room with plush and mahogany furniture and a buttery yellow couch, pushed against a wall adorned with some sort of Renaissance-style painting of a kind-faced Japanese man I assume to be the headmaster. A tall window overlooks the courtyard, displaying the fresh-cut grass rippling in the wind like a bright green lake. At the other side of the room is a heavy wooden door leading to the headmaster's inner sanctum.

I make a face at the luxury. _Fucking Japan,_ I think for the second time, and this time, it's almost involuntary—like it's already becoming a habit to think the words. Great. Now I'm a potty mouth.

Realizing that the door hasn't shut behind me, I turn to face the curly-haired boy again, grinning down at me. Well, he wasn't that tall when he was on the ground. In fact, I prefer him on the ground. My foot itches with the desire to trip him backward.

A potty mouth _and_ violent. Going strong, Erica.

"Hey," he says, cheeky.

"You were sent to the headmaster's office?" I ask, and then feel a strange sort of obvious familiarity when he crosses his eyes and grins, almost proudly: like I knew he would, like I already understand him. Which is nonsense, of course. I've just met him.

I notice now that he does have a nice face—messy black hair, bright green eyes, a subtle upward quirk on his lips. Annoying, but not infuriatingly so. His green eyes are startlingly sharp, but he has a nice smile, boyish and young and genuine. He seems harmless: mischievous, maybe, but not altogether bad.

"What can I say?" he's saying solemnly. "I'm a _troublemaker."_

He waltzes by me, dropping into the yellow leather couch and lifting his sneakered feet onto the arm of the chair. I follow suit, settling beside him in a blue armchair.

"So," he says solemnly. "What are you in for?"

"You make it sound like we're being incarcerated, inmate." It comes out before I can stop myself, the friendliness.

"Prison, the headmaster's office. Is there a difference?" He scoffs, balancing a pencil on his upper lip. "As if they could discipline _me,_ the rebel."

A self-proclaimed rebel. I roll my eyes. "What are _you_ in for, then?"

He blinks, and then rolls his eyes upward at the ceiling, sinking into his seat like he's reliving a world war. He raises his hands to the ceiling like Martin Luther King, Jr., preparing for a sermon. "Hear my _woe,_ friends," he begins dramatically. "The tale of this tragedy begins in the early morn, shortly after the regal waking of the spring sun."

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Thankfully, he's not looking at me to notice—it'd be a disaster if he thought I found him funny or something. It'd make me accessible.

 _Maybe you want friends,_ California whispers in my ear. I stab California out of the air with a ballpoint pen.

The boy locks his fingers behind his head and grins. "Basically, I put the tips of a Sharpie in the whiteboard eraser before class started. And then the teach did his thing, you know. So now the board has these really artistic black streaks—" He makes his fingers into talons and drags them across the air to help me envision: thick, permanent streaks on a glassy white surface. He raises his eyebrows, green eyes flashing toward me, as if to check my reaction for approval. "And—don't tell sensei, because he thinks I'm repenting or whatever, but it was _hilarious._ Teach gets this crazy, wide-eyed look on his face, and for a moment it was like you could read all his thoughts, all, _holy shit, the eraser thing isn't doing the eraser_ thing—and then he's considering retiring for the third time this morning. Like, it was totally a good idea at the time. _"_

This time, I can't hold back the laugh. He grins, eyes twinkling in gratification. I stop immediately and clear my throat. "That was idiotic of you," I state matter-of-factly. He sinks into his seat again.

He shrugs. "Technically speaking, it's not my fault. He's the one who used the eraser."

"So you're in for disciplinary action?"

"Niou-senpai said he'd buy me a curry bread today if I did it. But now that I think about it, they don't even sell curry bread at the convenience store anymore. They discontinued it after the Curry Bread Incident—which, come to think of it, he was _also_ responsible for." He scowls, and stares at me as if waiting for something, but when it doesn't come, he frowns. "You know. Niou Masaharu? Silver hair, third year, the trickster?"

I blink back at him.

He cocks his head. "Talk about unimpressed," he laughs. "You're in his year, aren't you? Third year. A senpai." He points at the yellow ribbon on my Rikkai uniform. "Not a fangirl, then?"

"A fangirl?" I frown. "Of what?"

"Of _what?"_ He drags out the beginning of the word from the back of his throat.

"Look, if it's any answer to your weird-ass question, I'm new here—from California."

He pauses, and then it's almost as if the sun dawns across his face. "You're—" He cocks his head. His jaw drops as he lifts a finger, pointing slackly at nothingness. "The English speaking. The headmaster's office. The startling disinterest at my miraculous presence. You're—" The finger drops into his lap. "It all makes sense."

"Eureka," I laugh, shaking my hands above my head like spirit fingers.

"You know, you're not terrible-looking when you laugh," he has to gall to tell me now. "It's almost—decent."

I scowl, but he remains unabashed. "Don't flirt, second-year, it's—"

At that moment, the wooden door to the principal's private room creaks open. The living incarnate of the painting above the boy's head appears, kind-faced and slightly balding and just over my dad's age.

"This is not a place for _socializing,"_ the man declares in a low, booming voice, like a sports announcer. He shakes a sausage-y finger at us, and then throws his head back and laughs at himself. "Well, then. Koichi Erica-kun, I presume?" he asks me.

"Yeah." I pause, remembering the words in the Japanese World Tour Guidebook that Mom threw at me, right after the Rikkaidai brochures: _The Japanese emphasize respect toward their elders._ "I mean, yes… sir."

He laughs his booming laugh again. "I'd heard you were from America," he says. "I see you've got a lot to learn about this country, Koichi-kun!"

And I laugh back, but make it so bitter, ugly, and ferociously fake that he trails off in discomfort, probably too polite to ask, _Jesus, is that your real laugh?_ To which I would say, _Yeah, fight me about it, bitch!_ And then punch him in the nose.

Which is totally unfair, I know. I'm being unfair. Old people can't fight.

"Um," he says, and then turns to the boy. "Kirihara Akaya-kun—how many times have I seen you this month?"

"Not enough to satisfy my desire to lay my eyes upon you, sir," Akaya declares. I clamp my teeth over my lower lip. _Kirihara Akaya._ I file away the information, even though I'll probably never see him again. Second years and third years don't really hang out, according to Mom's Japanese World Tour Guidebook. Still, he's crazy in a way I wasn't expecting Japan to be—in movies, Japan is all about samurai and ninja and crazy, war-loving three-piece-suited politicians. Not Kirihara Akaya.

"I have a lot to do today," the headmaster sighs, "so I'm letting you off the hook this one time—this _one_ time, you hear me? Next time will see serious repercussions. That means detention, Kirihara-kun, which means cutting into your practice time, and neither of us want that. Rikkaidai doesn't want that, right?" He grins. "Yukimura-kun and the rest of the team will be taking us to nationals again, isn't that right?"

Akaya brightens beside me, kicking the bag at his feet and grinning triumphantly: A tennis bag. Huh. "Yes, sir."

He frowns. "But, of course, the whiteboard—"

"—Can be fixed," I interrupt. Both Akaya and the principal look up at me. Maybe you're not supposed to cut off your elders when they're talking in Japan. Whatever. "If you write over it in dry erase marker and erase it when the ink is still wet, the permanent marker will come off too." I shrug. "We did it a lot in school. Drew dicks disguised as cats on the board, and stuff."

The headmaster gapes at me. Akaya slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes twinkling at me in approval.

And, I don't know why I feel better at his delight—but I do.

"Um," I choke out. "Sorry. I meant daisies. We delicate girls drew _daisies_ on the board."

The principal lifts a hand to his temple. His eyes are hard. "I do hope you'll behave yourself at this school, Koichi-kun," he says quietly. This time, I can tell he's not kidding: he is being very Serious, the way the Parental Units were when they found out what I did to the luggage bags, four days after they broke the News. "Rikkaidai can be a very accepting place, as long as you conform to the rules."

Well, gee, _that_ doesn't sound ominous or anything.

"Yes, sir," I say instead, bowing. "I'll keep it in mind. I apologize."

He laughs his booming laugh. "Koichi-kun, your homeroom is classroom 3-B. I'll inform Sakaguchi-sensei about your arrival so she'll know to expect you." Turning back into his office, he waves us off. "Well, off you go. Do your best with everything."

And he disappears behind his shield of an office. When I look up, Kirihara Akaya grins down at me, smiling with those bright, bright green eyes.

"So. You play tennis?"

We file down the sunlit-puke hallways toward 3-B: me gripping my messenger bag, Akaya gripping his tennis bag, both of us parading like soldiers down the battle line. He marches on the side of the windows; I watch the morning sun rays illuminate and shadow his sharp, boyish features and the words _light on light_ run through my head, but I can't figure out why since Akaya is like darkness, if anything.

"What tipped you off?" he exclaims now, pretending to be astonished. "I deeply regret not recognizing your superior mental capacity before. See, most people think I play _soccer_ , but I should have expected your great deductive ability, considering how much more _intelligent_ you are than the average— _Fuck!"_

My foot swings into his ankle with a satisfying _thud_. Akaya drops to the ground, hopping on one foot, holding back a howl. I cross my arms as I watch him struggle. "The average fuck, eh?" I ask innocently. "That's a new one. Is that Japanese slang?"

He scowls up at me, his lips pushed into a very uncute pout.

" _Yes,_ I play tennis," he says shortly. "Are you happy now?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah."

" _Wow,"_ he mutters, glancing sideways at me as he gets to his feet, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "You _do_ know that I'm doing you a favor right now? Like, I'm being _nice_ here. I'm _taking_ you to your class. Most people don't get to see this true angelic side of me, not in their average eighty-year human life span."

And then I suddenly do feel kind of sorry for this kid who has to deal with me, for my own personal problems and my own hatred of a situation that is clearly not his fault. He continues down the hallway, with me trailing along beside him. He's limping, and even though I know he's being overdramatic to make it another joke, I really did kick him. I can't imagine it not really hurting.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, and the truth of it must leak through because he straightens up again and grins.

"Jeez, pick a personality, senpai," he drawls, clocking my sudden reaction. He pauses, and then straightens his shoulders. "It's Kirihara. Kirihara Akaya, second year."

"What?"

He tilts his head at me, raising one eyebrow like he's talking to a toddler. "As in, my name?"

I regard him. Maybe it didn't really hurt all that much. I hope not. "Koichi Erica. Third year."

He check his watch. "Man, I'm gonna be so late to class. Hope the old man didn't tell my homeroom teacher that he let me off free. Kind of doubt it, though. It'd be too good to be true." He points out the window, past the square courtyard, filled with sakura trees and lofty benches, and at the upper stories of the building. "Anyway, the third-year classrooms are on the third floor, and then the second-year classrooms are on the second floor, and so on. The cafeteria and the convenience store are on the ground floor." He pauses, the most half-assed self-proclaimed tour guide in existence. "What homeroom did you say you were in again?"

"3-B."

"Really?" he grins with something that could be delight. "That's—my friends' homeroom."

"Damn. Maybe we can bond over how hard it is to put up with you." I catch myself smiling as Akaya flips his hair like a diva. "But still, to be friends with your senpais? I thought that was hard in Japan."

"Tennis team," he explains. He tilts his head at me as if he's trying to figure something out. "Has anyone ever told you you're extremely biased against the nation of Japan, by the way? Like, the entire nation? Because you are."

"Eh," I say.

"It's here." He stops in front of a classroom and reaches up to tap the swinging plaque above the sliding door. It sways at his touch like some kind of metallic mistletoe. Even from outside, I can hear the loud chatter of post-weekend socialization—at least that'sthe same.

"Thanks, Akaya." I pause. "Maybe I'll see you around." I don't mean to mean it, but it sure sounds like I do. I pinch myself: _Be cool, Erica, you sound desperate. Don't need friends, remember?_

He blinks. "So we're on first-name basis already, Koichi-senpai?" he asks. "Damn, you move fast."

His irritating reaction alone prevents me from taking it back. "Ha. Excuse me while I hold down the bile. Would you happen to be in possession of a spare bucket into which I could empty my disgusted innards at the prospect of courting _you?"_

He ignores me, peering into the small window in the door, holding his hand to his brow as if looking for something. He seems to find it, because he grins in a self-content way before turning.

I raise my eyebrows at him when he looks up, pretending not to be analyzing his every move.

"If you're going into _that_ classroom with _those_ people," Akaya drawls, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around." He gives me a two-fingered salute before heading down the hall toward the staircase. "Bye-bye, Erica."

A/N:

"Wait, Honey, what the heckatron is going on? What happened to the original CoP? Why do you keep doing this switching business? And what's your favorite cereal? I want to send you forty family-sized boxes of it!"

Well, listen. I started hating the original Change of Plans, and I started writing a different story called simpler than fairy tales, and I love that story and I love that fandom, and it reminded me of how much I really did used to enjoy writing here, and it was just a downward spiral for this story even though I reaaaally wanted to finish it. So I changed a few things, and this time, I promise I will finish it—because the things I changed have changed my heart. (heart eyes emoji)

What's different: (1) Erica's name, and many parts of her character. Erica is more calm-collected-and-angry, while Emily was hyperactive and really annoying, LOL. (2) More prominently: the actors. The love triangle will be a liiiittle bit bigger of a deal (as opposed to, y'know, nonexistent in the OG. LOL. And after what I _promised_ you!), and it will be between Kirihara, Yukimura, and OC.

My favorite cereal: Cheerios + Cocoa Puffs together. Ohhhhhh man.

Hope you're as psyched as I am. See y'all on the flip side—soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**news:** I always end up finishing chapters at six in the morning. Goodbye my GPA, goodbye, goodbye…

 **more news:** todayi have some ill news: i'm ill. as in, the illest. i'm the 1llest. i'm an illionaire. i'm ill as hell. mic check, one two one two.

 **pump up:** Stars and Stripes - Rooney

* * *

 **.change of plans.**

 **.chapter two.**

* * *

"All right, all right, settle down," the homeroom teacher, Sakaguchi-sensei, calls out. She is young, apathetic, and wears her black hair in a loose ponytail down her back. She taps her hand on the front desk. "I've got some important news."

I stand halfway between her and the doorway, painfully aware of the class's discreet stares at me, the New Kid. My hands are clamped over the strap of my bag and my heels are pressed together. I run my options through my head: (1) Smile meekly, set a vulnerable-and-protectable first impression to go along with the novelty. (2) Tilt chin up and scowl, set a touch-me-and-die first impression to go along with the dyed red hair. (3) Do nothing and let the class figure it out itself.

I choose option 3, though I keep my posture straight and my shoulders out so they know I'm not here to be pushed around. What's there to figure out, anyway? It's pretty simple. I'm the New Kid, and damn if anyone cares about anything beyond that.

"I think I mentioned yesterday that we have a new student," Sakaguchi begins, rubbing her chin, "but, if I didn't—well, I'm telling you now. We have a new student, and she's all the way from _America."_ She says the word in an American accent, I guess to add to the mystery flavor of The Americana. On cue, the class shifts into half-hearted applause, as if this is a normal thing she makes them do. "Isn't that right?"

It takes me a moment to realize she's talking to me. I blink, and then clear my throat. "Right," I agree. "California. Los Angeles." I sound like a robot, repeating everything she says. I shift my weight between my feet. "My parents got a job transfer here, so."

 _Yeah, that's why._ California rolls its eyes. _You coward._

"Los _Angeles,"_ Sakaguchi repeats, the way the green aliens in Toy Story might, except she does it alone.

Thirty foreign faces look back at me, blank and unregistering in my brain. Strange that one can go seventeen years with the same people and think that she knows everything about the whole world. Now, that "whole world" is fifty-five hundred miles away.

I scan the classroom, just swiftly enough that I don't make lingering eye contact with anyone. The stuffy yet not unpleasant smell of radiator heat and surface cleaner wafts through the air. The classroom is simply fashioned, with rows of desks of warm-colored wood. At the front of the room is an untouched whiteboard, the shelf under it lined with dry erase markers. The right side of the classroom is lined with spotless white-paned windows that slide sideways rather than up; through the glass, I can just make out the green grass of the courtyard Akaya pointed out to me, the branches of the sakura trees swaying with the spring wind.

My skin tingles with the sensation of someone staring at me. I look away from the window to look at the boy sitting in front of it.

And my mind goes blank.

The boy has light hair and broad shoulders, a delicate face that doesn't quite match up with his confident stature. He is beautiful, almost angelic. A polite half-smile graces his lips, one that almost-but-not-quite reaches his eyes. He tilts his head curiously, and then opens his mouth, mouthing something at me, but I never was good at reading lips.

My eyebrows furrow, and the angel laughs inaudibly before shaking his head, lifting his finger and pointing behind me.

I turn. Sakaguchi is watching me expectantly, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised. She's saying something to me again. Blank images of her face swirl into my vision, almost violently; I blink at her, trying to regain control over my mind. "Sorry?"

She frowns. "I said, I went to California once. The English teachers went on a trip last summer."

"Oh... Oh."

"Quite the culture shock, isn't it?" she goes on, tapping her finger against the desk with a thoughtful expression.

 _Not really. I saw four burger joints on the way to school today._ "I suppose."

"The kids act very differently there." She's talking more now to the class, as if this is a mini-lecture and she is inserting her worldly experiences into her pre-bell teachings. "It was a little bit shocking, to be honest. A lot of skin bared, a lot of partying, a lot of, you know, _Californication."_ She laughs as the class cringes.

"You've been to California once?" I ask, keeping my tone conversational. "I see. So sensei only has to do something once to become an expert?"

Sakaguchi blinks. The class freezes. Mickey Mouse's white glove ticks the seconds away on my wrist. Outside, the spring breeze sends leaves hurtling into the window.

 _It's not my fault,_ I think angrily. _None of this is. Right? It's not my fault..._

Fuck. The skin of my cheeks bursts into a familiar heat, itching and slow in its fury. I close my eyes. You're a good person now, Erica, for _fuck's_ sake, you promised—

I already hated this, hated Japan, hated Rikkaidai and this entire day, but in a familiar twist of time I hate myself, too. I hate that I never liked authorities or teachers or anyone who could legally tell me to do something I didn't want to do, and for this infinite moment I hate that I am that way, because it means I can't be quiet in a time like this. That I can't just shut up and let something slide and live my life in peace.

The boy with blue hair also stiffens in my periphery, but I don't turn enough to see his expression. Something about the situation makes me not want to see it—like how dogs look you in the corner of their eyes when they rip up your furniture. Not that I'm a dog, or he's my master, or whatever. That doesn't make sense.

But unexpectedly, Sakaguchi takes it with an easy half-smile—several notches, at least, above the apathy she gave me before. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I should apologize. But in front of everyone? It would just be awkward, even weak. My fists clench at my side. _Don't be this way,_ I think. _Open your mouth, say the words: I'm sorr—_

She takes a step forward and raises a hand. I wince in anticipation. For a moment, I think she might hit me: I think that's still legal in Japan, at least according to the manga I've read. And— the Japanese World Tour Guidebook said Japanese teachers were strict in disciplinary action. Combined with the "respect toward your elders" thing, I've just struck out against the whole system, really. I lower my head and wait.

Instead, she rests her hand on my shoulder and laughs. "Correct!" she jokes warmly, declaring it like a game show host, squeezing my upper arm. A flood of gratitude fills my lungs and the class relaxes, turning to each other in a sort of embarrassed wonder, as if they can't believe they were worried over something so apparently trivial. I look up at Sakaguchi through my eyelashes. She squeezes my shoulder again, and she says, quietly: "Take it easy—you're _okay,_ Koichi."

I feel my stomach collapse, something thick prickling at the back of my throat as I nod back.

She hands me a red dry erase marker. I roll the cold plastic cap between my fingers before I turn around and write my name on the board: _Koichi Erica,_ printed slowly and carefully so I don't mess it up. My Japanese handwriting isn't awful in my opinion, but Mom—the Japanese half of my multiethnic parents—always said it looked like an elementary schoolkid's work. Now, with my purposeful strokes and trembling fingers, I'm positive that it does.

"Koichi Erica," I mutter. My eyes come to a rest on the light-haired boy at the window. The pleasantry has dissipated from his eyes, replaced by a wary line in his smile. His gaze is like a drill press in my side, like I owe him an apology when I don't even know his name yet. It's almost like the antithesis of Akaya: the way I felt gratified at his approval, I feel disobedient and lethargic at the light-haired boy's order. Not that it really was an order. He never said anything. "Nice to meet you."

The class is watching me in a way they weren't before, like they're really looking at something foreign. So much for thinking I could decide what my first impression would be: it's already been decided, I guess. I'm the rebel, the problem child, the American.

I remember Akaya's words: _What can I say? I'm a troublemaker._

"Everyone, please welcome our new student to Rikkaidai. Koichi-kun, take a seat in the empty chair over there, by Yukimura-kun."

And the fates must have it in for me, because she points to the blank space beside the light-haired boy. Yukimura raises his hand and smiles politely at me; I trudge past the first two rows before making my way to him.

He holds out a slender white hand as I sit and drop my bag on the floor. I take it: it's calloused and thin, rough the way my brother's was after three years of his college rowing team. _Athlete,_ I think immediately, and the prospect of knowing one more thing about Yukimura makes me feel odd—almost as if I'm really the girly kind of schoolgirl I read about in shoujo manga. I shake the thought out of my head.

"Good morning, Yukimura-kun," I say carefully. Sakaguchi waves away the class rep, who starts to stand as she leaves, before disappearing out of the sliding classroom door. "I'm Koichi Erica."

He releases my hand after a heartbeat. "Koichi-san," he greets, masterfully avoiding the pronunciation issue. "I'm Yukimura Seiichi. Welcome to Rikkaidai." Even his voice is lovely: firm but melodic, with the clarity of a silver spoon tapping a wineglass. He tilts his head and smiles again, lovely in its humble confidence, but it doesn't feel quite like a smile for me—maybe in spite of me, like a favor. "Your Japanese is very impressive."

I clear my throat, though I can't figure out why I'm so nervous: it's not like it's my first time exchanging words with a beautiful person. There are beautiful people everywhere on earth, even more beautiful than Yukimura, and there is not much reason for me to be this way. In fact, more than his beauty, it's more like an anticipation that he'll scold me for disobeying that unspoken order earlier.

Which, again, is nonsense.

"Thanks," I find myself saying. "My mom taught me. She was born here, but my dad is a Shiba Inu, so I'm actually three-quarters Japanese." He blinks at me, and I scramble for words. "If you, you know, count Shiba Inu as Japanese," I add, _still_ rambling for some godforsaken reason. "Because it's... a Japanese dog?"

Instead of turning to the kid in front of him and going, _What the hell's up with this psycho?_ and sending laser beams through my guts, however, he smiles. This time, it does reach his eyes, just enough for the outer corners to crinkle like folds in fresh laundry, warm and boyish as he says—

"I see." A voice of pleasantry. He returns to his right, pointing to the student behind him: another boy, this one with a trim black haircut and a sharp bridge on his nose. He doesn't smile at me, but isn't altogether unkind, either: he nods his head slightly, an almost-bow of politeness. I nod back. "This is Sanada Genichirou, a very close friend of mine."

"Koichi-san."

"And this—" Yukimura begins, turning now to the seat diagonal from him and in front of me, but this kid is already turned around, watching me.

"Niou Masaharu," drawls Niou Masaharu. He tilts his head back, looking down at me through cerulean eyes. His disorganized silver locks fall down over his eyes, and yet his gaze pierces mine like glass, like my body invisible and he's looking straight through me. I sit up, feeling suddenly wary. There is something about him that catches me: something in his tranquility, or in his assured smile. Something in those eyes that just watch—either waiting for something to happen or gratified because it already has happened, and he's the only one who knows what it is. "Nice to meet you, Koichi- _kun."_

My name sounds like a joke on his lips, like he's tearing it apart and putting it back together even as he says it out loud. I frown, but I've probably had enough confrontation for the day. Besides, Niou's patronizing demeanor tells me he won't let me off as easily as Sakaguchi did for stepping out of bounds, and I don't know where those bounds are yet.

No. I don't _want_ to know them. I don't care—I want to go home, not claw at an unfamiliar cage, forced to figure thirty new people out.

"Nice to meet you," I say for the _n_ th time.

And maybe he can sense the disingenuity through the mask, because he grins that lopsided grin back, staring back down down down at me. I look away, flipping my gaze beside him to the window, but I can still feel his gaze lingering on my face even after he turns back around.

I turn to the back of his head for a full second, the silver strands that match his slippery, enigmatic presence perfectly. Yukimura's existence digs like eagle's talons on my left arm as he turns around, speaking in hushed tones to Sanada about something important and technical. Sanada responds in his deep voice, terse yet interested. And all around the rest of the classroom are pairs of eyes and ears, clocking my every move, judging Erica the New Kid as they decide: _Normal?_ like I have to prove my worth to them, at the bottom of the plankton food chain, with no one to grab my hand if I fall.

This place, this whole scenario, it's all whack. It's not my fault. None of this is my fault.

I bite my lip to hold back the stupid lump in my throat as I dig through my bag for my books. First period is Japanese History, like a condescending silver stake through my foreign, vampiric heart. My foreign textbook drops onto the desk, the cover featuring kanji and famous illustrations of unfamiliar historical figures. I miss Isaac Newton, Paul Revere, the Beatles, Muhammad Ali. I open to a random page and read the caption under the picture: _Yukimura Sanada._

I blink at the name, trying to convince myself it's not funny, but the desperate laugh escapes my throat like soap bubbles from a wand.

I clamp a hand over my lips. Yukimura glances up at me mid-sentence, eyes flickering down to my textbook. He recognizes the image, and smiles warmly again, understanding.

 _Not so bad,_ I think, _being understood._

I close my textbook and drop my head into my arms, shutting down my mind until class begins.

* * *

At twelve thirty, the lunch bell sounds. Class rep stands and leads everyone into a bow, except for the kid in the back of the room who is sleeping, and the kid beside him who is trying to wake him up. Sensei gives them a look before exiting, leaving the rest of the class to stand and erupt into chatter, moving their desks into little islands of picnic tables, or walk out of the room in pairs.

I watch everyone move in bewilderment, trying to figure out what the heck is going on. I wrack my head for the pages on school lunch of the Japanese World Tour Guidebook, but come up with nothing. My mind swirls wildly until I remember what Akaya said in passing about food: Convenience store? Cafeteria? Ground floor? Party? Was I supposed to bring cups?

"Koichi-san?"

I spin my head around so fast that I hear my neck crack. Yukimura Seiichi looms over me, blocking the sunlight through the window. Rays of light stem from his head like a crown. He looks concerned, the kind of calculated furrowed-eyebrows-and-slight-frown that isn't real concern, but a signal of you-look-pathetic-and-I'm-available-to-help.

He points at his watch, a leather strap and gold face that looks like it cost more than my house. "It's lunchtime," he says. "Do you have your lunch?"

 _Angel,_ I think. Even if it is not completely insincere, it means more than nothing that he's kind enough to ask. I shrug. "I didn't know I was supposed to," I explain dumbly. I glance at the bento box in his hands, two stacks of blue plastic squares, tied neatly at the top by a translucent handkerchief in a simple knot. I wonder who made it: his mom? His butler? Maybe even Yukimura himself? Everything I know about bento boxes comes from Cali sushi restaurants and shojo manga, and in shojo manga, it's always some shy, flushed girl with a misplaced expertise in cooking. Talk about useless information.

"That won't do." Yukimura frowns. "I would take you to the cafeteria, but I have something to discuss with Sanada about our practice regimen for today. I apologize."

"Nah, it's cool." I shake my head. _Practice regimen?_ "I have the remnants of a granola bar and some blubber reserves from the winter."

Yukimura ignores me like a sane person would, scanning the room before turning immediately to Niou. My stomach sinks: Niou makes me feel nervous. "Niou. You go to the convenience store during lunch time, don't you? Show Koichi-san the way for today."

Niou pushes out his chair obediently, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He strides toward the door and doesn't look back until he's at the doorway, at which point he draws out the words: "Well, you coming or not, Koichi-kun?"

There's that insincere politeness again. I frown at the sudden turn of events, but refuse to scramble to satisfy Niou. "Thanks," I tell Yukimura, who nods back and moves his desk to face Sanada's. _Psych! Didn't ask you to do that, though, bro!_ and then imagine him sending me a glare so sharp that my head blows off from the sheer willpower. Yeesh, no thanks.

I dig into my messenger bag for my coin purse, and even though I know it's in the outermost pocket, it's the last place I open to buy time. I finally pull it out, and then drop it into my skirt pocket as I follow after Niou, staring at him as if to challenge him. He smirks at me once again as if he knows exactly what I'm trying to do.

"Very cute," he drawls.

I'm about to respond when I'm cut off by a classmate's voice.

"Niou-kun! Can we come with you?" a cute girl in a top bun asks. She approaches like an ocean wave, elegant and smooth as an oil painting, from the opposite side of the room. She has expertly applied eyeliner and an attractive smile. Behind her trails a shorter girl in round-framed glasses and slender legs that she knows how to show off. They glance at me with cordial smiles of passing disconcern before turning back to Niou.

"Sure, if you buy me a melon bread." They giggle, scuttling after him. Top Bun slaps his arm, but Niou arches an eyebrow. "You think I'm kidding? I forgot to bring my wallet. Melon bread or no deal."

"Oh, _fine,"_ Glasses says, mock-groaning, and then giggles. "I _guess_ I can make an exception for today, but only today."

"Fine by me. I'll get someone else to do it next time," he says, sending them into a flurry of flirtatious protests. The difference in interest between him and his companions is sickening. I almost want to inject myself between him and the two girls to protect them from his wolfy ways, but then remember that I probably have to walk down four floors listening to these bantering children, and then I feel bad for _me_ instead.

"So, Koichi-kun," Niou says, looking back at me trailing behind them as we head toward the stairs, "You ever have lunch in a Japanese school? The lunch ladies have low patience this time of day. It's best to know what kind of bread you want in advance."

"Huh." I look up at the nice-enough girl in the top bun to ask her what kind of bread she would suggest, but she breaks her gaze away at eye contact. I scowl, almost ready to grab her by that hair: _Look, chill out. I don't want your man, okay, I just want some lunch and if possible, a kitten to pet._

"The chef recommends the curry bread," Niou continues. "It's, ah, otherworldly. It won't be on display, so you have to ask for it, but—"

"The curry bread was discontinued," I recite automatically, almost without thinking: Akaya's words. I miss his easy presence, of knowing there was no ulterior motive under his conversation—unlike a one Niou Masaharu, who seems to be trying to provoke me with each sentence. "After the Curry Bread Incident."

Niou's eyes flash in surprise. He blinks at me and tilts his head, completely severing his interest in Top Bun. She looks up in a panic, but plays it off coolly.

"How do you know about that?"

I almost answer, but raise an eyebrow back instead: the gratification of being a step above him is too good to pass up. I get the feeling people don't get to one-up Niou Masaharu every day, and even if this is far from a real one-up, I would like to perpetuate his state of inferiority for as long as possible. "Oh, did Yukimura-kun forget to mention? I have these sick psychic powers _._ It's actually why they kicked me out of the Western Hemisphere." I nod solemnly. "Serious stuff."

I take advantage of his confusion to pass him, battling the stream of students down the stairs.

* * *

A/N: What is the Curry Bread Incident? Only Niou knows. Even I don't know, and I'm too lazy to think one up, LOL. Let's pretend it's sexual, though. With Niou as a high school senior, it always is ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**news:** Haha, I love FFN because the disparity in fic quality is comparable to the wealth disparity of the United States. BOOM. *drops mic*

 **last news:** Lots of characters in this chapter, one of which is a new OC.

 **chill out:** No Surprises - Radiohead

* * *

 **.change of plans.**

 **.chapter three: bread baked with dough and lies.**

* * *

The crisp smell of udon noodles and the deli bar hits me like a welcome punch in the gut, reminding me that I haven't eaten all day except for half of a breakfast granola bar. Long lunch tables line the cafeteria, interspersed with uniformed Rikkai students, throwing backpacks and Saran wrapped sandwiches at each other or reciting orders for their friends. Across the room, in a corner simply labeled "CONVENIENCE STORE", is a swarming crowd of students, battling their way to the front.

"You'll probably find something edible over there," Niou drawls, nodding toward it. "Knock yourself out. Possibly literally."

I slide my eyes over to him. I wonder what a real gentleman would do under such a scenario, if a defenseless new girl was inserted into an unfamiliar and maybe dangerous situation. I wonder what Yukimura would do. Part the crowd like a god as he led me into the heart of the chaos using nothing but his angelic presence, empty candy wrappers and paper receipts swirling around us like deciduous leaves. Watch me buy my BLT and then turn around, marching regally back out of the room on a magically-appeared, red velvet carpet. Yeah.

"Koichi- _kun,"_ Niou drawls. "You in there?" I snap out of my insane vision and look up: he looms over me, one eyebrow raised, steel blue eyes boring holes in my conscience. He leans back on his heel, watching me lazily. "I said, I suggest you go now if you want anything. The bread runs out fast."

"Oh." I avoid eye contact, trying to naturally look past him, like that will protect me from his mind tricks. I mean, maybe it will. Even if it doesn't, anything is better than the feeling of being x-rayed by the enigma apparently capable of the Curry Bread Incident, whatever that is.

"By the way, Koichi- _kun..._ if the word 'gratitude' means anything to you,I like melon bread."

I roll my eyes. "Is that all, _Niou-kun?"_

He smirks. "That's all."

Behind me, I hear Glasses whining after me: "Niou-kun, I said _I'd_ buy you the melon bread…"

I turn on my heel. God, do they not feel how scary he is? He's like a ticking time bomb, a viper ready to flash out and strike at any moment, for any reason.

I approach the crowd of the bread-chasers, standing at the edge for a few seconds before spreading my feet and taking a deep breath. I'm getting some goddamn lunch today or my name isn't Koichi Erica. _Well, it's not, really_ — _it's Erica Koichi,_ I remind myself, and hearing my name said in the _proper_ order sends something flurrying through my chest, a searing surge of confidence.

I slap my hands together like an alligator head before launching myself forward, squeezing my fingertips in between groups of individuals. Love and friendship stands no chance against my determination. None shalt enjoy lunch before my wrath. Someone yells as I stampede through the crowd, and before I know it, I emerge victorious at the front of the line, holding my wallet above my head like a trophy. That's right, bitches, I wasn't voted Best Problem Solver in fifth grade for nothing. Or maybe I was. I don't know. I was in fifth grade.

I reach into my coin pouch, scanning the rows of food: cutlet sandwiches, bags of chips, Japanese candy, packages of bread. I blink at the foreign price tags, knowing I have about fifteen seconds before someone picks me up by the ankles and launches me out of the crowd again.

"So, I fully realize this is a stupid question," I begin, turning to the boy next to me—which is always a great way to start questions, of course, "but this is equivalent to a dollar, correct?"

I hold up a 100 yen coin between my thumb and forefinger, turning to the boy beside me.

The first thing I notice is his hair: firetruck red, or Harvard crimson. It falls in luscious, regal locks over his ears. I stand, slack-jawed, enamored by the color because it is the exact same shade as mine—and _goddamn_ it is lovely. For a second, I think I know why my blood-of-Vikings-red business hasn't been discouraging anyone: because when you look that bangin' in red hair, no one would want to leave you alone.

He seems to realize this at the same time as I do, because he grins, managing to blow a bubblegum despite it.

"Nice hair," we say simultaneously, lifting our fingers at each other. We blink. "Oh. Jinx. Knock on wood."

I burst into laughter. "I finally found you, my long lost twin brother!" I declare dramatically, slapping him on the shoulder. I misjudge the force, though, and he winces at the impact. I drop my hand sheepishly. "My bad."

"Nah, it's cool," the boy says. He winks and snaps his finger at me. "Anything from someone with such great taste in hair color would be a compliment."

"A dangerous declaration. I could well abuse that privilege."

He grins, and then nods at the coin still in my fingers. We both look at it. "So… Is this equivalent to an American dollar?" He takes it from me, holding it up to the light and squinting at it as if it may be counterfeit. "I mean. Are you asking me my knowledge on the current exchange rate? Because there's, like, Google for that shit."

" _Yes,_ it is roughly equivalent to a dollar," someone says from behind the redhead, plucking it out of his hands. A very tan boy with a shaved head smiles at me, handing me the coin. I take it from him, and even though I know it's rude to stare, the kid makes it hard not to: he is clearly not Japanese—maybe a halfie, like me. "Koichi Erica-san, by any chance?"

"Well—" I cough, surprised. "Yes."

"I'm Kuwahara Jackal, and this is Marui Bunta. Yukimura texted me about a transfer student from America. He said he sent you down with Niou to help you, but he must have known that doesn't mean much." Kuwahara looks up, scanning the perimeter with a tired, knowing look. "And he was right, as usual."

 _Sent_ me down?I don't like the sound of that, no matter how irrational it is. "You know Yukimura-kun?" Kuwahara nods, and I snort. "I doubt Niou-kun would have answered me honestly if I'd asked him something like this, anyway." I wave the coin in the air. "So I can buy bread with this?"

"Americans don't know how to buy bread?" Marui mutters under his breath. "I should write that down as a future career possibility. Teaching Americans how to buy bread." He raises an eyebrow, reaching for another cutlet sandwich. "Holy shit, I could be a billionaire, especially if I can swindle money. Should be easy enough if my customers are stupid enough to take a bread-buying class."

"What are you even _talking_ about?"

"What are _you_ even talking about?

They devolve into a complicated, hypothetical argument as I reach down to grab a melon bread and hand it to the lunch lady. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a single remaining package of melon bread in the tray. Not that I give a shit about Niou Masaharu, obviously, but it _is_ right there.

After a moment, I pick it up and pay for it. Whatever. Maybe it'll put another bewildered expression on his face. Wouldn't that be nice to see?

"Marui, Jackal."

The three of us turn. Niou stalks up, slouching slightly, but it makes him look confident rather than shrunken. His sharp, uncaring eyes flicker toward me now, and then back to Marui, but I can't figure out what he's trying to say—something judgmental and rude, probably.

His female companions are nowhere in sight. Stretching my neck, I just catch the tail end of Top Bun, the girl he was talking to before, running out of the cafeteria with one hand clamped over her mouth. Glasses chases after her.

A flash of anger bursts in my throat, but I pretend not to notice. It's none of my business.

And... not that I especially care, but I wonder if there's someone in the world who can make Niou feel like a biological specimen as he so easily does to everyone else.

 _Yukimura Seiichi,_ a voice reminds me. I re-envision the disapproving look he gave me after my slip-up with sensei, a weighty feeling of disobedience even though he hadn't said a word and he held no power over me. An instinct: _Yes_ _, Yukimura Seiichi._

"Niou, the man of the hour! The Romeo to my Juliet! The, ah—" Marui pauses, wracking his brain for more literary references, but gives up immediately. "Lend me fifty yen. I can't afford the rest of my snacks and Jackal won't give me any."

I glance at the piles and piles of snacks in his arms. He is embracing brand bags of chips, cookies, and sandwiches like a mother hen guarding her eggs.

"Fuck off, I'm broke too." Niou glances at me. "Ready to go, Koichi? Class is gonna start before you can eat." He blinks at the two bags of bread in my hand, feigning emotion. "Well. You didn't buy that melon bread for _me,_ did you?"

That's all I need. I was raised to be a girls' girl, a champion of maidens' hearts, and even though I know I can't give two shits about Top Bun and Glasses, I can afford at least one for vengeance of this size. I wonder how many times he does this: make girls expect things, think they have hope, and then crush them with the insistence that it was their own fault for being led on.

God. There I go again, pretending I know these kids. I barely know him. I _don't_ know him.

I spin on my heel and smile at Marui. "There you go, Marui-kun," I say cordially, dropping the melon bread on top of his stack of snacks. He brightens, feline eyes widening into circles like it's Christmas morning, and the look is so oddly likeable that I add a 100 yen coin to the mix, dropping it into the breast pocket of his uniform blazer. "For you. And your hair."

"Yo!" he yodels at Niou, who watches him in flat amusement. Marui shifts his arms, resting his chin against the melon bread to keep it from dropping out of his grasp. "The transfer student's a bonafide saint! Shit. I won't forget this service, Koichi-chan. Well, until tomorrow's lunch, that is." He winks. "And that's for the hair."

I laugh, and it feels good to laugh like this: genuine and innocent and no strings attached. Jackal sighs behind him, shaking his head and muttering something about diabetes and heart disease as Marui rearranges his snacks in his arms. But when I glance up at Niou, he looks at me with an unreadable expression and a smirk:

"You sure are good at sucking up to the right people, huh?"

The words come so unexpectedly that I wonder for a moment if I imagined them. I whip my head up to stare, the satisfied smirk disappearing from my face. _"Excuse_ _me?_ _"_

He spins around, lifting a hand in a mock two-fingered salute.

"Wait, what are—" I begin, and then trail off. I'm overreacting. I take a deep breath, staring at the fists my fingers have formed without me even noticing. My hands drop to my sides.

Trembling, I catch Niou turn and saunter out of the cafeteria.

I don't care. I don't have to care. I won't care. Fucking Japan.

Still trembling, I turn around, trying to fight the fury off of my face, trying to tune back into Marui still arguing with Jackal. He has managed to balance all of his purchases in one arm, now gesticulating wildly with the other in his efforts to illustrate the mechanics of his bread-buying company. Only now do I notice all of the students gazing at them—not in bemused confusion, as one would expect, but in focused curiosity, maybe even admiration.

I take a step back, away from them.

Sucking up? The right people? It makes no sense. I haven't done anything wrong.

Right?

"Koichi-san..."

When I look down at my melon bread, there are fingerprints pressed into the center, crushing the crust through the plastic.

"Koichi Erica-san?"

I jump. A porcelain-pale girl with shoulder-length black hair and clear brown eyes glides up to me. I blink at her: we are the same height, the same build, except this girl has a sort of spark to her steady gaze, drinking in her surroundings like an owl, and carries herself with the assured dignity of a ballerina. She smells of something subtly floral, lovely and composed. Marui and Jackal cut off to look at us.

The girl tilts her head, hair cascading delicately over one shoulder, and then clears her throat. "Koichi-san, correct? My name is Aso Koharu, student body president." Aso Koharu looks me up and down, and for a moment I imagine her with wire-framed glasses, a white lab coat, and a wooden clipboard as she appraises me, as if trying to figure out where to begin. "Lovely hair," she says finally, which is light years off from the battlecry of confrontation I thought she was going to give me.

I soften, exhaling slowly. "Oh. Thank you."

Marui grins, managing to throw an arm over my shoulder as Jackal desperately tries to catch the bags of snacks pouring to the ground. "The color of champions," he declares. I feel significantly less like laughing now, but still afford him a smile. He squeezes my shoulder. "I mean, I kind of deserve to have my hair be firetruck red, being the most awesome net player in the country, amirite or amirite?"

I stare at him. "I have no idea what you just said," I say.

He falters. "National tennis champions? Marui Bunta?" He points a finger at himself, staring at it as if suddenly doubting his own identity. "Right?" He spins toward me. "You've heard of me. Right?"

"She's from California, Marui," Kuwahara sighs, giving me an apologetic shake of the head. "She hasn't heard of you."

"Does California exist under a rock? Who hasn't heard of Marui Bun-"

"Marui-kun," Aso Koharu interjects suddenly. She steps forward, and despite her small build, that single, slight movement sends both Marui and Jackal into a hasty silence. She tilts her head, letting her jet-black hair roll down her back. Her eyes flicker to Marui's arm still draped over my shoulder. His hand twitches as if Aso Koharu telepathically and invisibly stabbed acupuncture needles into his fingertips. "Acting in this manner during school hours is undesirable as per the guidelines against public displays of affection."

Marui stills, and then his arm slides to his side like water slipping off of a laminated sheet of paper. "What? Um. Right," he mumbles, just as the warning bell begins to chime. He takes his snacks from Jackal and heads off toward the cash register, giving us one last nod. "Well, I'll, uh, see you, I guess. Thanks, Koichi-chan."

"Excuse us," Jackal adds, equally awkwardly, before turning after him.

I blink at their retreating backs, and then turn to smile uncomfortably at Koharu. "Um," I begin, looking down at my crushed package of melon bread. "Did you need something?"

She smiles, and the expression is so soft and lovely that for a second I think she's shimmering. "As student body president, it's my responsibility to make sure all students are enrolled in at least one school club, but it seems you don't meet those requirements, seeing as how you're new and all."

I hold back a whimper. One school club? That's one school club too many for my current emotional state.

She pulls out the manila envelope tucked under her arm and hands it to me. I hold it in both hands, the cool surface resting against my skin, and stare at the front: it says, in handwritten calligraphy, my full, Japanese name. _Koichi Erica._ Professional and real and unavoidable. I scowl at the folder.

"That's a packet with our exhaustive list of clubs offered at Rikkai," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. She pauses, seeming to clock my less-than-enthused reaction, because her tone softens. "I know you must be stressed with your transition. I'd love to give you as much time as you need, but unfortunately, it's a necessary rule in order to promote student involvement and extracurricular interest at Rikkai. We can only give you a week to confirm your application, if only for issues of formality."

"No, I get it. I'll think of something," I tell her hastily, pulling out the packet and flipping through the pages. What's the most bullshit club that's probably in here? Anything involving physical exertion is out of the question. Maybe something arty. You can't judge someone's art.

She doesn't seem to buy it, because she lingers, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "If you have an interest in tennis, you could join the girls' tennis team. It's pretty competitive, but you can join as a non-starter. I joined in my second year and would be happy to explain any-"

"Why would I have an interest in tennis?"

My tone must have sounded sharper than I meant, because she blinks. "Oh, I just figured. Since you seemed close with..." She gestures wordlessly in the direction that Marui, Jackal, and Niou all went. I blink. So Marui, Niou, and Jackal are part of the tennis team. It's so obvious, now that she says it, that I feel stupid for even realizing it now.

"No, no tennis," I tell her, shaking my head. "Just… something easy. Something without a lot of commitment…"

"Perhaps the newspaper club?" Koharu offers. The second bell rings mid-sentence, and I inch away toward the dwindling lunch line to pay for my crushed melon bread. The lunch hall lady takes my yen in a latex-gloved hand and sweeps me out of the cafeteria. "I'm a member. You don't have to do anything past writing at least one article per semester, and minor editing if you'd like."

"Sure, perfect. I have to go-"

"Koichi-san-"

But before she can add anything else to my list of responsibilities, the stream of students sweeps me out of sight.

* * *

The final dismissal bell rings at exactly three-thirty.

As sensei waltzes out, the class shoves their books into their bags and start chattering about after-school plans. I give Yukimura and Sanada a quick wave before zipping out of the room for the shoe lockers, and though I hear someone call my name—class rep, I think—I ignore it, reaching into my skirt pocket to turn on my phone. I never used to power off my phone during school, but it seems like something good, quiet students would do, which is what I am. A good person.

It lights up with three new text messages from my mom:

 _9:01 AM: Erica, did you get to school all right? No troubles with registration?_

 _12:19 PM: Erica, how are classes going? You're doing okay?_

 _3_ _:32 PM: Erica, did classes end? Dad and I are working now until five or six, do you want to come help out? But if you've made plans with your new friends, it's fine._

I move all three messages to the trash, slip my phone back into my pocket, and look out the window at the sky. The rain has stopped, leaving water to drip in irregular beats from the windowsill to the ground. I can already see pairs and groups of students streaming out of the front gates from here; they leap over and shove each other into puddles, screaming and laughing. Man, they look so tiny from here—like if I stuck my leg out the window, I could crush them all, like Godzilla.

 _Shit._ The kids back in Cali would have my head over how pathetic I sound: _Oh, is widdle Erica sad? Come here so I can smack you in the head, you big sob story_ _ **,**_ they would say, and then we would go get cheeseburgers and argue over the ingredients of orange soda.

But that's fine. I don't want friends here. I don't want anything to do with this place. I think back to the Japan World Tour Guidebook: what else do people do after school? PC rooms? A bookstore? The mall? Shit, as long as it's away from people I know, it's good.

Swinging open my shoe locker, I fling off my indoor shoes and throw them into it before dropping my neon blue sneakers to the floor. I pull back as much of my short hair that I can hold behind my head as I slip them on. Food: that's what I'll do. I'll go downtown and try my hand at one of those street vendors, or maybe a ramen shop. I don't hate _everything_ about Japan: there's some crazy stuff out there that I've always wanted to try, like authentic fried tempura or live octopus over sushi rice—

"Koichi-san."

I whip my head up.

Jesus. Yukimura smiles at me, standing in his angelic form at the end of the lockers. The post-rain sunlight, reflected off of the matte metal, touches his skin as if caressing it, putting a lovely golden glow to his eyes as he approaches me. I swear the heavens open up, releasing a symphony of cherubic choruses piercing past the daylight stars and cupid's arrows swinging through the air.

I, meanwhile, have one shoe on and the other flung into the depths of my cubby. My hair is half-loosened, stray baby strands exploding over my forehead. Frantically, I pat them down, pasting on a smile that I know is one-hundredth of his radiance, and then hate myself for being so self-conscious: this isn't me. This is some zombie stranger that Japan has replaced me with.

"Here."

Yukimura hands me a familiar package of melon bread. It is unopened and uncrushed, however, so it can't be mine. I frown at it, and then up at him.

"What's this?"

"I heard you gave Marui bread during lunch. I'm repaying the favor because I know he never will." The corners of his lovely lips forming tiny little caves. He looks so pretty I want to muss up his hair and draw polka-dots on his face. I imagine pinching his cheeks with my fingers and pulling outward, watching his prettiness stretch across like pizza dough, his mouth elongating into a segment as he tries to speak, _Koichi-san, stooooop…_

I shake my head. What is _wrong_ with me? "Oh, no, that was a gift. He helped me."

"I insist." Yukimura reaches out and takes my hand before enclosing my fingers over the plastic. It crinkles, crisp and new, and the warmth of either the bread or his hand heats up my skin. He must have just bought it from the cafeteria, before it closed. "And if he asks you for money again, just ignore him and he'll get the hint. How was your first day?"

I stare at the bread, and then up at him again. Everything about his face, his posture, the way his eyes look indicates that he does care, but there is a gut feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me otherwise. He's shutting me out—doesn't want to owe me anything. Most of all, it's calculated as hell, and he's making sure I know it: his expression is just distant enough to show that he's asking out of politeness, that he's mastered this way of making me believe. That I'm just another classmate.

Well, of course I am. What was I expecting?

I get it. Yukimura doesn't want to deal with a _troublemaker_ like me. Again, that feeling of familiarity floods through me: like I knew he would do that, act like he would have full control over everything. Or he's not pretending. That would make sense, too. I pull away from his grasp and smile.

"Thanks," I say, holding the bread up to my forehead like a salute. "And… yeah. My day was great. See you in class tomorrow, Yukimura-kun."

He nods back with another smile before turning for the exit, where Sanada is waiting for him. I watch him leave, totally unaffected by how _weird_ a normal person would find that entire interaction: repayment for a piece of bread, hours after the fact, especially when it wasn't even him to whom I gave it.

I don't care—I shouldn't even be here, in this school, with these strangers. Control-freak Yukimura Seiichi, enigmatic Niou Masaharu, military general Sanada Genichirou.

 _Fuck,_ I think as I slip on my other shoe and shuffle to the door. _Japanese people are weird as hell._


End file.
